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A weekend worth of D&D history research and the idea is to merge Dark Elves and Drow. Why? Well...Dark Elves were banished to the Underdark and darkened, this giving way to Drow. But in 1374 DR, Elven high magic returned Eilistraee worshipers to their Dark Elf appearance. So, due to Gildorym’s current year, that puts us at first generation Dark Elves. What do you think?
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Just a sneak peek to Admin Kyazi’s new Races layout for Gildorym. Expect similar additions made for our alignment and deities.
Classes? Well they now officially have abilities. We will also be including a detailed list of Gildorym weapons and armor that are available to each class.
Kingdom Crest? Expect to see them posted within teamspeak kingdom channels and forum sections.
Gildorym 2.0: Update #2
We’ve accomplished so much already. A few rules and guides have seen a much needed face lift and clarifications. Shayne has trimmed the fat of mass number of channels, only keeping necessary channels.
Admin Kyazi is our busiest staff member at the moment. She has been hard at work cleaning up and reorganizing the forums. When we re-open to the community, everything will not only be aesthetically pleasant, but easier to navigate for our users.
A few of our guides are currently under construction as we expand them. Gildorym is getting closer to having it’s own handbook!
First batch of projects are already wrapping up! Alignments, Races, Server History, Deities, and a new staff section on the forums.
Cinders of Holme - Journal Entry
Cinders of Holme: by Murderfoxen
Up until that point, it had all been going so well. Perfect, even. Rowyn began to freeze up - his throat felt tense. The smoke, my god.. the smoke. Black and choking. No ordinary fire. Nothing like that existed in the ordinary world. Nothing could burn his city like that.. it was magic. The shadow must have known. It must have known what he'd been researching. What he'd come so close to perfecting. All of which, had been in there. In his study. All of it.. on fire and gone. Rowyn began to sprint. Panicked. Unable to do anything - feeling helpless. He ran like his life depended on it, screaming. " Help! You MUST help! Holme is on fire! Sanctuary burns! " Rowyn would shout, sweat on his face trickled down his porcelain and usually well-kept skin. The people of bray began to turn, heads - curiosity sparked in their faces. They knew of him. His position in the city. The call for buckets and heroes ringing out. " Malidorne is burning! MY CITY IS BURNING! " He bellowed, too panicked to answer the calls to calm down from those close. It was happening too fast. He couldn't wait. He had to run. He had to save his life's work -- his only last remnant of all those who had left him. Who had died. His city. HIS home. He turned, running from the gates -- damn it all, if only he'd prepared the right spells. Spells that had more use.. the only thoughts trailing through his head as his frame pelted through drowse forest. he heat and smoke growing thicker -- his chest screaming out to him to stop, a stitch hitting him hard - yet he pressed on. Now he saw people. Some had come to help - but the fire blocked them. He had no time to trace faces. He had to save Malidorne. Thamior. Strife -- oh gods, the druids -- All of it now. He heard the screaming. Scenes of utter chaos as magic fire spread mercilessly, people running the grounds at every turn in frighted panic -- In the tree-tops he heard shouting, as rangers and druids both combated what they could of the flames - whilst arrows let fly with the occasional sound of magic discharge further away still. Rowyn clenched a fist, the other drawing his wand - letting loose all hell as he summoned a large sphere of ice. Just in time, as he quenched the fire before him -- allowing him time to move. No time for a victory dance - he jolted to the relics vault, . Several fledgling druids accompanied by Thamior, the leader of Siannoden stood guard as he approached. " Thamior, you must leave this place! Holme is lost, and I will not loose you all to this damnable fire! I will retrieve it. Do not delay! You must flee! " Rowyn shouted, Thamior did naught but stay fast, looking at him stern. " Rowyn, grab the sapling! Our lives are forfeit if not for this. The fledglings have sworn it. You must escape with it - Malidorne wished it as her frame burned! " Thamior would reply, turning quickly to stomp down her gnarled and ancient staff - The shadow himself had found his attention on the group, but Thamior had entangled it with a group of protruding vines. She turned to the fledglings ordering them to escape - the last thing Rowyn would see as he dashed up the carved stairs, towards the highest chamber. It was there - thank the GODS it was there! Rowyn thought, quickly and carefully grabbing the sapling - it's delicate golden leaves and white oak were a sight to behold to any. It was all that mattered. It mattered more than Rowyn. It was the only hope for his people now. A scream could be heard from below, as well as a discharge of lightning - followed by a dark and decrepit voice. Rowyn listened intently, peering over the stairs to see a armored and masked figure, it's blade steadfast within the lifeless corpse of Thamior. " No.. Gods no.. " Rowyn would whisper, turning pale. The shadow himself was here. The shadow himself.. Rowyn had little choice, or the clarity to think of the weight of what he did next - charging out and muttering his most powerful spell. " Meteor swarm! " He bellowed, wand outstretched as he caught the shadow off-guard, sending the creature back - not even scratching it still. It was an escape tactic - and one that had worked! thought rowyn, as he began to run past him. " You dare try? You are nothing - foolish elf. This place is lost - and this is just the beginning. " The shadow hissed, his speed unmatched as he suddenly came upon Rowyn, swooping him upwards as he would go flying - his frame hitting several branches before it fell - a circle of fire around him. The force was too much.. Rowyn began to strain his conscience. So many had died today. Women. Children. Friends.. Teachers.. they all died on his watch. In a city he had sworn to protect -- after all this time he was nothing. One attack from the shadow, enough to defeat him. Rowyn crawled - he saw faces.. Ileleste.. Phyyra.. Was he to die? No - he must deliver the sapling. Not until this was given to them, would he die.. A sharp pain pierced the back of his robes and neck - strong hands picked him up. Voices - the shadows -- he was saying something. He could barely focus.. but it was then he knew. His end was soon. Thinking his end close, violent images of all his ties began to play -- his last memories powerful. Meaningful. Briona.. be strong. Faldor.. protect her. I'm sorry I could not protect you. Ileleste.. my friend. Eira.. Jhulia.. Strife-- All the pained memories. The mortal aspects of his life flashing around him. He knew this was his end. He knew he wouldn't come back from this. That all of it meant nothing now. That everything he fought for could in the end be taken away.. Curse you shadow.. curse.. you.. And then he was thrust into the flames, the pain unbearable.. the burning both magic and physical. He screamed -- The pain - so bad he would have rather died.. the pain was like nothing he'd ever experienced.. a white hot pain in his head - stinging away all consciousness - until there was nothing. it all faded.. it all went to black.. Rowyn held the sapling in upon his chest, gripping it tightly over heart. As the shadow dissipated, the last thing he would hear was the screaming of those who had watched the scene, and the bright magical flames violent hiss would fade to silence..
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OOC Day
I hope you all are looking forward to the upcoming OOC day marking the Servers Two year anniversary. Many games rides and events are being eagerly planned. How do you plan to spend our OOC day?
Journal Entry -- Cold
An ink-stained journal lay open on the table, a decanter of wine sitting next to it.
Most only remember the name as a plaque put up in the Hall of Heroes, but to me, Richard Longstride was more then that. He was a bitter man, his true heart choked out by the weeds of circumstance and his soul corrupted by the flames of the thing that inhabited him. I did not know him long, and I did not know him well, but the impact he had on how I acted and how I viewed myself later in the war was vast.
And out of all the deaths I have witnessed as a Paladin of Kelemvor, his sticks out the most in my mind.
While nothing like the blizzards I had been born to up in the frigid North, Nightal brought snow on wicked winds in the Isles. The three nations, Gildorym, Bray, and Astrium, converged under the roof of Maer Dauldon's Keep to celebrate the successful end of the year. Peace was toasted to in crystal wine glasses, food was spread around the room, and laughter fell more thickly than the snow outside the doors of iron outside. With our masks and our elaborate costumes, we paraded around as equals.
It would be the last time we would taste such peace.
My Queen, Aora, had been the perfect social butterfly, tending to the guests while her newly wed husband entertained the menfolk with his luck at cards. Myself? I was keeping the peace as I had been charged to, wearing my best military formals and a simple mask of stained leather fashioned like a hawk's face and beak. The night had gone so smoothly, the entertainment of a scavenger hunt had been a smashing success. Even the diplomats from Bray were much better company with bellies full of mead, and plates full of roast beef and buttered potatoes.
Even Richard Longstride, a massive figure cutting an impressive contrast against the colorful garb of the people in his frightening armor, had chosen to attend. I made some small talk with him, still thankful for the assistance he had given against the beast Verr, before taking my leave to check on the other guests. The only oddity the entirety of the night was a second man in armor, white as the weather outside, that had been in there earlier in the night, but that was quickly pushed to the back of my mind.
Looking back on it, I wish I had taken the chance to talk to everyone there more at length. I was a young woman and foolish to boot, however, and the fact that I never got the chance to sit down and speak to the Patriarch of the Nomads as he assisted through the night will haunt me for a few years yet. He had disappeared soon after the feast began, not that I noticed at that given moment. The man was quiet, and I was paranoid since Jayius' betrayal a year or two back.
It must have been fifteen minutes short of midnight when I noticed something significantly more wrong. While it had started with a rough, painful sounding cough, Richard had collapsed in a fit of hacking and gasping at the entrance of the feast hall. I quickly dropped the conversation I was holding to go to his side, a strange curdling fear solidifying in my stomach. Black blood, almost like thin pitch, stained his lips--I recognized it as the same liquid that had poured from his wound suffered from the claws of the Beast.
The next few moments are forever crystallized in my mind. I knew, with the certainty of fate, that nothing I could cast with the grace of Kelemvor's will would help ease his pain. My second holy duty would have to suffice; comfort in the twilight moments of his life. Faldor stood at my shoulder, Keior at my side, and the confused mutterings of the drunk of the three nations served as background noise. I still heard his last words, clear as day, over the din of the crowd.
"Burn me. Li-ke the o-ld ways... On a floating pyr-e and sp-rea-ding my ash-es to the win-d up-on the se-a... Onl-y then wil-l the-re be hop-e in th-ese dark tim-es."
His eyes looked into mine, and I could see the pain in them. The loneliness of a dozen years baring the weight of guilt upon his shoulders... In that moment, I felt more like the First King than I had to any other person. I felt I understood his pain. He uttered some words in a hissing, rasping language I didn't understand, before the life left his eyes and he fell limp. The small clattering of the toy knight he'd reclaimed from the body of his son echoed through the now-silent hall. One of the greatest men in Gildorym's, nae, Faerun's history had just died in my arms...
...and from the brackish blood pouring from his lips, birthed a monster that would spark terror into even the most hardened of warriors. Skeletal and horrific, the creature ripped itself free from the mortal bounds that held it to pull itself across the floor with clawed hands. It disappeared, and with it, Richard's armor. Fear rippled through the people around me, but I found myself oddly focused. I had been given one final order from my one and true mentor, and I would carry it out.
The... Rest of the night will have to come in some other entry. Even now, the events leading up to the start of the war are painful for me.
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